She was the mayor's wife, but she was not too proud to
cook for me after lighting a flickering oil-lamp. While I was waiting for
my meal peasants came in, and had theirs at the bare tables, of which there
were several in the great kitchen. Their soup was ladled out from the
immense black pot that hung over the fire, and the noise they made as
they fell to it was very grating to the nerves. But the wanderer in the
chimney-corner had no business to be there, unless he was prepared to
accept all that was customary without wincing. My own dinner commenced with
some of this soup, which was like hot dishwater with slices of bread thrown
into it. The bit of boiled veal that followed was an improvement, although
anything but a captivating dish. Goat-cheese, hard and salt, and with a
flavour that left no doubt as to the source from which it came, made up the
frugal fare. I returned to the chimney-corner and smoked in silence, now
peering up the sooty cavern where the wind moaned, and now watching the
clear-obscure effects of the dimly-lighted room. Presently a trap stopped
outside, and in walked the aubergiste, accompanied by a sprightly little
man who I afterwards learnt was a pedlar.
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